“Here, my darling. Take this and keep it very safe. And as soon as I am feeling a bit brighter, we shall go into Winchester to the dressmaker. How would you like that?”
“I – think it would be lovely.”
Rosella felt very awkward. It did not seem right to take the purse with all that money inside, but her aunt was thrusting it into her hand.
“I have been putting these sovereigns aside for you for a long time,” she said. “Take them. They are yours.”
And then she lay back and closed her eyes.
“My darling, I really am feeling a little bit under the weather today. Please would you ask the maid to bring me a cup of tea? And then I think I will rest until luncheon.”
Now, standing under the rose trellis in the hot June sunshine, Rosella shivered, remembering that day and the one that followed.
Aunt Beatrice had not come into luncheon.
She had retired to her bedroom and, although she got up the next day as usual, when Rosella brought a bunch of pink-and-white striped tulips to her in the drawing room, she did not move or speak when Rosella approached her, but lay quite still with a gentle smile on her face.
She had passed away as she was sitting in the warm sunlight that streamed in through the window.
“Don’t fret, my dear, don’t fret.” Mrs. Dawkins, the housekeeper, had told Rosella, patting her kindly on the shoulder. “That’s a good way to go, why – her Ladyship would hardly have known a thing, so peaceful and happy in the sunshine here and knowing you would be in to her with the flowers in just a moment. Don’t grieve for her, my dear. We might all wish for so good an end.”
Mrs. Dawkins’s grey eyes were bright with tears as she spoke. Rosella could hardly bear to remember the sad expression on the housekeeper’s face.
And it still upset her terribly to recall the way that Pickle had called out “bye bye” in a sad little voice, as she carried his cage out of the drawing room, almost as if he understood what had happened.
“Your Ladyship?”
The soft Hampshire burr of Thomas’s deep voice sounded in Rosella’s ears, bringing her back to the present and she became aware again of the strong scent of the pink rose blooms.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, yes, of course I am. It’s so warm today.”
Rosella quickly passed a hand over her eyes to wipe away any tears.
“Yes, my Lady. But it’s June, so I suppose that we should expect it. Oh – ”
He looked down, blushing under his thick fringe of hair.
“What is it?”
“My Lady. I forgot it must be your birthday.”
“Oh, Thomas, please don’t worry about that.”
Rosella’s heart gave a little skip – someone had remembered after all!
“Go back to The Hall, my Lady, and I’ll bring the flowers to you,” he said, his face brightening up. “I knows how it is when there’s no family to think about you on your birthday. I’ve only my sister now and she’s in London.”
He then picked up the secateurs and began clipping some of the glorious blooms and laying them in the basket.
Rosella strolled back through the bright sunshine to the front door of The Hall and she was just stepping inside when Thomas caught up with her, holding out the basket that was brimming over with pink, white and golden roses.
“Many happy returns for today, my Lady,” he said, as he ducked his head in a little bow.
“Oh, my goodness!” squealed Mrs. Dawkins, who had just come into the hall.
“I had quite forgotten! Come Lady Rosella, we must make a big fuss of you.”
She took the basket of flowers and led the way to the parlour, a small room where Rosella preferred to sit now, since the drawing room held such sad memories.
“My Lady, I shall put these in water for you and bring you some of your favourite hot chocolate.”
Rosella sat in one of the armchairs by the fire.
It was strange to have someone else do for her what she had always done for her aunt.
But when Mrs. Dawkins returned with the roses in a tall glass vase, they looked so lovely she almost forgot how sad she was feeling.
And when the housekeeper set the vase down next to Pickle, who was sitting in his cage on the windowsill, he called out “goodness gracious” in such a surprised tone that Rosella had to laugh at him.
“Now, my Lady – ”
Mrs. Dawkins watched the parlourmaid coming in with a cup of steaming hot chocolate, before continuing,
“I well know that your dear aunt had planned a very happy day for you. She told me many a time she wanted to take you and buy you a fine gown.”
“Yes, that’s right, Mrs. Dawkins.” Rosella replied. “She even gave me some money, but – I don’t think – ”
“Well,” Mrs. Dawkins was determined to speak her mind. “I know how much your aunt wanted you to have that gown, my Lady, so I am going to call for the carriage to take you into Winchester. And you must then choose the loveliest silk and ask the dressmaker to make you the finest outfit you’ve ever had!”
Rosella shook her head.
“I couldn’t.”
“It’s what your aunt would have wanted. For her sake, Lady Rosella, you must do it!”
Mrs. Dawkins stood her ground firmly until Rosella finally nodded in agreement and then the kind housekeeper hurried away to speak to the coachman.
*
Mr. Algernon Merriman lounged back against the leather cushions of the Brockley coach, as it jolted along the bumpy country road and wished he had suggested to his friend, Lord Carlton Brockley, that he should use the open landau instead for their journey down to Hampshire.
It would have been much more comfortable on this hot and stuffy day than the cramped interior of the coach.
He looked across at Lord Brockley, who was sitting opposite him and thought that his companion was looking very much the worse for wear.
His Lordship’s heavy face, with its drooping jowls and thick black mutton-chop whiskers, was flushed with heat and shiny with sweat.
“Whose idea was this?” Lord Brockley growled, running the back of his hand over his brows. “We would have made much better time on the railway.”
“Now then your Lordship. One must keep up one’s appearances.”
Algernon pulled himself up on the seat so that he was sitting up properly.
He caught a glimpse of his reflected face in the small window above Lord Brockley’s head.
They were neither of them getting any younger, but at least he, Algernon, had a good thick head of fair hair still and his long pointed moustache, newly trimmed and waxed by his valet early that morning was perfection!
Luckily his reflection in the little window was not a very good one, so that the nasty black eye he had acquired a few days before, in most embarrassing circumstances, did not show up.
“You are taking possession of your new country residence, Carlton,” he continued. “You can’t just turn up in the Stationmaster’s dog cart like any old passenger. You must make an impression! Arrive in your coach, my Lord, with your coat-of-arms and your coachman, if you please.”
“Hah!” Lord Brockley was not at all convinced. He rapped on the roof and shouted out, “how much further?”
“It be just ten miles to the other side of Winchester, sir, we’ll soon be there,” came the muffled reply.
His Lordship growled impatiently.
“Ten miles too far,” he muttered.
“But just think of what awaits you,” Algernon said. “One of the most attractive seats in Hampshire, so I am told. Frankly, old man, I can’t understand why you haven’t claimed it long ago. It’s been yours for years.”
If he had been lucky enough to inherit a country estate from his elder brother, Albert Merriman – which was about as likely as the prospect of seeing a large pig with wings flashing past the carriage window, since he was only the fourth son of Sir Walgrave Merriman.
His three e
lder brothers, who were all in excellent health, would have to be out of the way before the family Manor House in Gloucestershire could be his and he would certainly not have allowed his sister-in-law to live there in the lap of luxury for several decades.
All that Algernon had managed to acquire in the way of property was a lease on a small flat in Bayswater, very insufficient for a gentleman such as himself, he felt.
Lord Brockley was in a very different position.
His Lordship had both a fine town house in London and another large country property at Epsom, which was most convenient, since it was right by the Racecourse and so not too far from the City.
It was only the death of his sister-in-law, Beatrice, and the recent decision of his wife to ban him from the London house, that had persuaded him to go to Hampshire.
He pulled a most unpleasant face and grunted,
“What? With the old battleaxe, Beatrice, my sister-in-Law still hanging around? No fear! Women! The bane of my life, Merriman, bane of my life! Want nothing to do with them, to be honest with you. Now Beatrice’s gone – there’ll be no problems.”
The fair sex was a very sensitive subject with Lord Brockley just at that very moment.
Relations with his wife, Lady Brockley, had never been particularly cordial, but after the deplorable incident of just a few days ago, she had gone, most unnecessarily, in Algernon’s opinion, on the warpath and forbidden her husband entry to the Mayfair house.
Lord Brockley had been reduced to sleeping at his Club, which had led to his spending a great deal of time in the smoking room there and thus the plan to travel down to Hampshire and take possession of New Hall.
“New Hall – new start, your Lordship! What could be better?” Algernon had suggested, thinking that the more miles they could put between themselves and the furious Lady Brockley the better.
In spite of the sweat that was dripping from him in the sweltering interior of the coach, Algernon gave a little shiver as he remembered the expression of icy fury on that Lady’s aristocratic countenance and the sheer hatred that blazed from her steely eyes as she ejected both him and Lord Brockley from the front door of the Mayfair House.
“Where is our son?” she had hissed at her husband. “You have driven him away, you useless man! What have you done, you and that despicable friend of yours, to cause him such distress? Get out! And never let me see you here again.”
Algernon had tried to protest that it was surely her beloved offspring, Lyndon Brockley, who was at fault and why, he, Algernon, could hardly see at all out of the eye the young man had so impetuously shoved his fist into!
But Lady Brockley was having none of it and the elegant blue door slammed irrevocably shut behind them.
Algernon sighed.
What could he do, when young ladies found him so irresistibly attractive?
He knew that he always looked very dapper in his evening dress, especially the frock coat very cleverly cut to disguise a waistline that had, alas, begun to expand a little in recent years.
And the combined effect of his good tailoring, well-brushed hair and perfectly tweaked moustache had indeed worked its magic on the slightly tipsy young person in the blue dress, who had fallen into his arms on the stairs after dinner at the Brockley’s Mayfair house a few nights ago.
A most charming creature and pure chance that she just happened to be engaged to Lyndon, Lord Brockley’s son.
If only young Lyndon had then been a little more attentive, he might have been the one to catch her, when her foot became tangled in the train of her dress and the one who should have pressed his lips against her delicious young mouth.
“Merriman!” Lord Brockley’s angry voice recalled his companion to the jolting coach. “I cannot continue. I require some liquid refreshment. Immediately!”
One of the reasons why Algernon had remained so close to Lord Brockley for so long, was his willingness to fit in with whatever his Lordship wanted to do.
Now, as he peered out of the window, he could see that they were driving by houses and shop fronts.
“I think we must be in Winchester,” he said. “Let’s pause at the nearest hostelry.”
He reached up and thumped on the roof, shouting to the coachman to take them to an inn.
He was very thirsty himself and a flagon or two or even three of the finest local ale would not go amiss.
As the coach lurched to a halt, Algernon hurriedly fastened up the top button of the riding breeches he had worn for this journey into the country.
He had not worn them for ages and they really were far too tight for him now and most uncomfortable around his middle if he had to sit down for a long period of time.
But one must look the part of a country gentleman if one was to make the right impression on the pretty young girls who might be found in this rural locality.
Girls, like the delightful example he could see now, as he stepped out of the coach.
A slender little thing in a dark gown with the most sublime head of golden curls over which she was holding a parasol, was just walking out of the inn yard and up the High Street.
Lord Brockley stumbled down from the coach.
“Come on, Merriman,” he said impatiently. “Leave off chasing the girls for just one day, can’t you? This place looks most inviting.”
He peered into the interior of the inn and sniffed appreciatively at the mixed aromas of beer and roast beef.
“Merriman, we need go on no further,” he insisted with great determination. “I have had enough of travelling and botheration. We will stay here and have a good dinner and go on to New Hall later when we are fully refreshed.”
With a lingering glance at the graceful silhouette of the lovely golden-haired girl, now folding up her parasol and disappearing into a shop, Algernon Merriman tipped his hat over his forehead to disguise his huge black eye and followed his companion into the inn.
CHAPTER TWO
The gown in the window of Palmer’s Modes for Ladies was the most beautiful Rosella had ever seen.
It was a pale ivory silk evening dress with a wide flowing skirt, a blue velvet sash and narrow bands of velvet ribbon decorating the bodice.
As she stood on the hot sunny pavement and gazed at it, she thought that it looked like a beautiful white lily growing in a shady corner of the garden.
It was certainly a very pleasant sight after the hustle and bustle of The Peacock Inn, where she had just left the carriage.
She had felt quite uncomfortable alighting there, a young girl all on her own and it seemed as if all the ostlers and pot-boys had stopped their work to stare at her.
And then a large covered coach had arrived with two rather disreputable-looking middle-aged men inside – and one of them, a stout fair-haired man with a moustache, had winked at her, which she did not like at all.
A loud jingling noise called Rosella to the present moment, as the door of the dressmaker’s shop opened.
“Lady Rosella! What a very pleasant surprise. Will you come inside?”
Mrs. Palmer, who ran the shop, peered at Rosella over her little half-moon glasses.
Rosella folded up her parasol and stepped into the shadowy interior of the shop, which had a pleasant smell of woollen cloth and freshly ironed cotton.
Mrs. Palmer brought a chair for Rosella and offered her a glass of lemonade.
Rosella accepted gratefully and, as she was sipping the cool drink, Mrs. Palmer spoke of Lady Beatrice and what a sad loss she was to the town and local villages.
“Her Ladyship will be so missed,” she sighed.
Rosella explained about the money her aunt had given her to buy a gown and Mrs. Palmer’s eyes lit up.
“I saw you looking, your Ladyship, at the model in the window! You will be needing a pretty evening gown like that, as I am sure you will have many balls to attend, now that you have become a young lady.”
She hurried into the rear of the shop and came back with an armful of silks of all different colours.
There were endless purples and violets and lilacs, yellows and golds and several different shades of pink, ranging from the palest of pearly sheen to a bright vivid colour like a fuchsia flower.
Mrs. Palmer slid the large bolts of silk onto a chair.
“There!” she said. “And if you cannot see what you like, my Lady, I have plenty more to choose from.”
Rosella could not help reaching out to touch one of the bolts of silk. It was the colour of a pink rose petal.
“Ah!” the dressmaker smiled. “What good taste you have, my Lady. And may I suggest this for the trimming?”
She then pulled a bunch of cherry-coloured velvet ribbons from a box.
“I-I’m not sure,” Rosella hesitated.
The colours looked quite perfect together, but she could not imagine herself wearing them.
All her dresses at New Hall were either white or pale blue, most suitable for a young girl. And, now, since her aunt’s death, she had grown used to wearing the dark colours of mourning and even though it was her favourite colour, she had never worn a pink gown.
“Why – but you have just the complexion to carry off this combination.”
Mrs. Palmer extended a hand to Rosella.
“Come to the mirror over here and I’ll show you.”
The dressmaker unfurled several yards of the pink silk and folded it round Rosella and then held up the bright ribbons at her waist and neck.
Rosella gasped.
In the mirror in front of her, she saw a tall and beautiful woman with lengths of golden hair tumbling over her bare shoulders and dressed in the glorious colours of a midsummer rose.
“Who – ?” Rosella whispered, looking over her shoulder, for she thought that this woman must have come silently into the shop and come to stand beside her.
But, of course, it was herself there in the mirror, just a slim shy girl trying out some silks for their colour.
She stared at her reflection and suddenly the mirror seemed to ripple in front of her and instead of the cramped dress shop, she could see a vast gloomy hall and a huge chandelier winking with candle flames hanging down from a high vaulted ceiling.
The beautiful woman stepped back, her pink skirts ruffling around her feet and Rosella saw that she wore a black velvet mask covered in tiny diamonds over her eyes.
100. A Rose In Jeopardy Page 2
